I was hugging Jill as she died and told her: Your battle is over, go in peace
A raw first interview with the widower of Ealing vicarage rape victim Jill Saward
JILL SAWARD’S family will celebrate her 52nd birthday this weekend the way her family have always celebrated birthdays — with a visit to a Chinese restaurant.
It’s a long-held tradition and her husband Gavin Drake, 46, and sons Myles, 22, Rory, 20, and Fergus, 18, are determined this year will be no different.
Together, they will toast the wife and mother they all adore. Tragically, the guest of honour will not be there.
Jill, the ealing vicarage rape victim who survived the notorious attack at her home in 1986 and became a tireless campaigner against sexual violence, died suddenly last week after a stroke.
It prompted an extraordinary outpouring of grief from the public, who recognised true courage when they saw it.
Gavin, a journalist, and his sons are bereft. He admits he is numb.
‘We’re struggling as a family, we’re hurting as a family, and the honest answer to how I’m feeling right now is: “I don’t know,” ’ he says at the family home in Hednesford, Staffordshire.
‘It’s still a whirlwind. The shock, combined with the lack of sleep. But what’s getting me through is support — messages from close friends as well as strangers, tributes by MPs in Parliament, letters from Archbishops and ordinary people.
‘My boys have been incredibly strong. I call them “boys”, but someone flicked a switch last week and they became men.’
The events of that terrible night of the vicarage attack in 1986 have been well documented, but it was Jill’s courage and determination — not only to waive her anonymity, but to make changes to the laws surrounding sexual assault — that created a lasting legacy.
Over the past three decades she helped to train judges and police officers on sexual violence issues, gave talks in schools and helped change government policy.
Her sudden collapse came on Tuesday morning last week. By coincidence, Gavin had tweeted only a few days earlier: ‘2017: If you thought 2016 was bad, you ain’t seen nothing yet.’
He explains: ‘At the time, I’d meant it about Brexit, Trump and more celebrity deaths. But I still can’t believe I wrote those words only five days before Jill died.’
She had been complaining about pins and needles, says Gavin, ‘but we’d had a lovely family Christmas at home and this was the day we were all going back to work.
‘Our eldest, Myles, was teaching in Hong Kong, Rory was in bed and Fergus was at college.
‘Jill was writing a letter on her laptop and got up from the sofa to sit on the floor. But she didn’t so much sit as slump.
‘We laughed about it, but then she started complaining that her head felt as if it was in a vice. She went to the kitchen and was sick, so I called nHS 111 and they sent an ambulance.’
Jill was coherent when the paramedics arrived, but shortly afterwards she fell unconscious and was rushed to hospital.
‘The ambulance took her to hospital and they asked if I wanted to go, but I said: “I’ll take my car to bring her back.” I thought she’d survive.’
BUT the doctors put Jill under sedation and told Gavin to be prepared for the worst. He knew it was time to gather his family. ‘I rang Jill’s twin sister, Sue, and called Myles to tell him to get a flight back from Hong Kong — and that his mum might not make it until he got back.
‘Sue, Rory and Fergus were with me when the doctors told us the bleed was too large and that there was nothing they could do.
‘There were tears, but the boys were strong. We knew she wanted to be an organ donor and that the doctors would have to move quickly, so rather than say our goodbyes after she’d gone, we said them while she was still alive.’
Gavin and Sue stayed at Jill’s bedside. ‘We were singing to her and praying. A friend who is a vicar came to do Last Communion on the Wednesday, and Myles got there just as she was dying.
‘She could hear us. She was squeezing my hand. I was hugging her as she died in my arms.
‘My last words were that she could go in peace, her fight had been fought and her battle was over. And that it was time to go to God, who was waiting.
‘I don’t know whether I was saying it to comfort her or me. Probably both.’
When the family got home, they drafted a statement and sent it out. ‘Before we knew it, the news was on the BBC,’ says Gavin.
‘Somehow, seeing her on Tv again was comforting. even seeing all the stuff about 1986 wasn’t painful. But when the camera closed in on her picture and the dates 1965 – 2017, we all gulped. We knew it was final.’
Gavin’s love for his wife is tangible. He refers to her in the present tense and his eyes keep glancing at a photograph of a smiling Jill nestling in his arms on their wedding day in June 1993.
After the brutal attack, Jill, who had been a 21-year-old virgin at the time, was convinced she had been ‘left on the scrapheap’.
Indeed, she admitted that her first marriage, to a man called Gary, was only because he ‘ expressed an interest’. The marriage lasted only months.
Meeting Gavin backstage at a music festival in northamptonshire in August 1992 was a turning point. Gavin says he knew from the moment he set eyes on Jill that she would be his wife.
‘I had no idea who she was, but I took one look at her and thought: “You’re the girl I’m going to marry.” She was so beautiful. Her smile, the glint in her eye.
‘My first question was: “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” All she said was: “You might have done.” We then played this silly guessing game. I asked her things like: “Have I seen you on telly?”
‘Then after a while, I said: “Are you Jill Saward?” The laughter stopped. Did I feel uncomfortable? It didn’t alter anything I felt about her, though perhaps I felt more responsibility towards her.’
Gavin was smitten and asked for Jill’s address — which he then lost. But after a month he had tracked her down and invited her out for a drink.
‘On our first date, she brought along a couple of chaperones because she wasn’t entirely sure my intentions were honourable,’ he says. ‘But we spent the next three weeks talking.
THRee weeks later she got a call from the police to say the worst of her attackers was going to be released. ‘There was concern for her safety, as he’d threatened to kill her and knew where she lived, so she fled to America for four weeks. When she came back, she moved to Devon and I’d visit every week.
‘I didn’t propose as such. I’d told her early on that I’d always known I was going to marry her and it happened naturally.
‘She designed the rings. She didn’t want gold or a precious metal. She said: “For something as precious as an engagement ring or a wedding ring, I want something they won’t steal.” So she designed a silver ring with black onyx and cubic zirconia.
‘The plan was for me to propose by the River Tavy in Devon, where we were going to get married the next day. But the night before, she needed me to pick her up from the supermarket. I got there, opened the box and showed her the rings because I was so excited. She never let me live that one down and always said I’d proposed in the car park at Tesco.’
The couple married and their three sons followed quickly. Jill had feared the attack might have left her unable to have a family.
‘At the time of the rape, she had said two prayers,’ says Gavin. ‘ The first was: “Let me get through this.” The second was: “Let me be able to have children.” So when Myles came along, it was the happy ending.’
But even with her new role as a busy wife and mother of three, Jill threw herself into campaigning for victims of rape, and was not afraid of controversy.
‘One of the criticisms she got was talking about women who go out in short skirts and start snogging complete strangers,’ says Gavin.
‘She wasn’t saying they were asking to be raped, but they were not helping. That was at odds with the views of some women’s groups.’
Since her death, many have been asking why Jill Saward was never rewarded with an honour. Gavin is circumspect.
‘The greatest honour for her was seeing the smiles, the laughter, the joy she brought to people,’ he says.
‘When the honours list came out, I’d joke it was faulty her name wasn’t on there.
‘If she’d got one she would have been thrilled, overwhelmed and humbled by it. But she never did any of this for an honour.’